


Mr. Murdaher or How To Not Hold a Sandwich

by UnapologeticallyMeatwad



Series: Mr. Bear or How to Ignore Your Problems and Give Into the Beast You Always Feared You Were [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Absurd, Black Comedy, Comedy, Gen, stupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 16:47:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18144827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnapologeticallyMeatwad/pseuds/UnapologeticallyMeatwad
Summary: But Mr. Bear and Mr. Rhino were well acquainted with each other and knew that while they adored each other — they could never make love.Not out of any sort of homophobia — but they both shared the same argyle sweater from Macy’s that most men paraded around, and given that the sweater had been so involved in their individual coming-of-age journeys, they felt inclined to fuck their sweaters often.The bedroom eyes of Mr. Rhino remained still and focused as his lips spoke the horrible truth to Mr. Bear.“You’re a murdaher, Mr. Bear. Not only of one Stag, but likely many moah. If I was you, I’d skip town.”





	Mr. Murdaher or How To Not Hold a Sandwich

A man hungry. His mood? Confused. His disposition? Sour. His legacy?

Short. Oh yes. This is not a man who will live long enough to see Avatars Two Through Five. Painful to acknowledge but for now, do not fret. Prolong your grief, Dear Reader, for there is more to say about this man.

Such as his hands? Full. For they hold a sandwich.

Does this make sense? The way these two forces correlate? No?

That’s alright. It will in due time. Trust me.

It was a snowy day and Mr. Bear was having lunch with his esteemed friend, Mr. Rhino, a brutish fellow who had made many a thoughtful investment in his youth. Mr. Bear blushed a deep red as he sat across Mr. Rhino in this illustrious home crafted out of sheer gold.

He blushed even deeper when in came to cut the chit chat and launch right into the reason he was there, for these two former friends turned acquaintances at best were meeting in order to discuss a certain —

_“I killed a Stag with my BEAR hands, Mr. Rhino. He’s rotting in my front yard right now, what do I do?”_

— je ne sais quois.

Chin cutely propped up on a his murderous paw, Mr. Bear watched the sloping hills beyond the mansion. He licked his lips at the sight of a man at the crest of the hill, holding up a large sandwich, his tongue waggling in excitement.

But was Mr. Bear craving for the aforementioned sandwich? Or…

…the aforementioned man?

Not even Mr. Bear could answer such a question for his entire purpose had been sent into a spiral from his decision to murder the Stag that he had no business slashing the throat of.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Bear chirped. “I worry for I do not know whether I hunger for the man — or for the sandwich. It is quite the — “ “Shut up.” “Okay.”

“You’re a bear on the run!” Mr. Rhino screeched, crashing his thick arm into a salt shaker that would quickly be forgotten. “You can’t soliloquy anymore!”

“But how will I ever make up my mind on anything?” Mr. Bear directed to himself, looking up at the sky and scratching his chin like a cutsey bear in a storybook might.

You see dear reader, Mr. Bear was and is a very lonely bear. Nary a soul can tolerate his selfishness nor his dull wit. Because of this, Mr. Bear had grown accustomed to talking to himself at such a length that he forgot the manners that many of us know so well.

And it is to my great anguish dear reader that — well — Mr. Bear, despite the insistence of Mr. Rhino that was now a bear on the run, did offer up this very same explanation to Mr. Rhino quite unironically. But as a writer who suffers from second hand embarrassment so heavily, I cannot bear — or is it bare — huh — I don’t really know — but I can’t stomach the awkwardness that Mr. Bear placed on Mr. Rhino so it is much to my chagrin that I will skip this part of the conversation because it makes my stomach churn.

Mr. Rhino just sort of rolled his eyes, deciding it would be futile to negotiate and change this bear on the run and lifted up a sandwich of his own designs — a dead wallaby burger. Still raw and hairy.

Mr. Bear curled a napkin into his maw, feigning civility when faced with this disgusting meal.

Mr. Rhino smiled, with eyes only for his lunch, chomped off a sizable portion of his kill. “Shit, I forgot to add the mustard.”

Mr. Bear looked down in a panic and slammed both of his paws into the table, encasing a lowly mustard bottle underneath his bloody hairs. A little victory for our friend, the ursa major, was of the utmost importance now.

Mr. Rhino, a vile rhino that faked his way to the top, quite obviously saw Mr. Bear’s attempt to hide the mustard from him, but chose to table that for a later discussion. For if he were to call Mr. Bear out, it would be awkward. And while Mr. Rhino was absolutely a white collar criminal, he could not fuck over the blue collar when meeting face to face.

“I killed a Stag,” Mr. Bear sobbed, raising his mustard laden paws to his face. “The humans were right about me — I am a monster.”

“You just realizing that now?” Mr. Rhino laughed, quietly sliding the damaged mustard bottle away so that Mr. Bear would never ever look down and realize that he had been caught yellow handed. A rare act of mercy from such a carnivorous villain.

“Did you do what I told you about eating up the corpse?” Mr. Rhino asked with the jab of a fork, “Why I just did that to my own victim before I head over here, hence the — “

“Dead Wallaby Burger, I know,” Mr. Bear hissed. “Well, I tried to, but — “

Let’s pause for a moment to revisit our friend the Sandwich Man.

For peril is to come to him soon. Remember what I said about the short legacy? Ha. I wish it were a farce but nay — his end is to come soon.

Sandwich Man oh Sandwich Man. Why? Why? Why?

Sandwich Man launched into investigation mode and inspected the meat between the bread. He wanted to eat it oh so much — but doing so was impossible with the bread in the way. So he fished his hand in between these thick, oppressive slabs of gluten, rummaging for the cheap bologna he needed to be happy forever more.

This particular moment is very important — so I would like to stay with you as you mull it over in your head — a man with his hand feebly jammed between bread to retrieve bologna.

Hold on that — breathe in — breathe out — and take my hand as we return to Mr. Bear.

The golden allure of the mustard became more prevalent as it knotted together Mr. Bear’s bedraggled fur. Mustard that need we remind you — Mr. Rhino felt too uncomfortable to point out.

Oh the tragedy of these two friends — too self-involved in their need to have their hands clean of filth — that they allow such ineptitudes to occur.

Do not dine with those who won’t deem you coated in mustard my friends. If you are to take nothing else from this tragic story of blunders, then please, remember that.

Mr. Bear pushed two large nails together and cringed at — well — read ahead. And learn.

“ — I did go to eat the Stag like you recommended but unfortunately, I made a mess of things and it made my yard the worse for wear which is when — ah — my lovely neighbor saw this disturbance and well — “

“ — and you ate him?” Mr. Rhino lazily gestured.

“Oh, no,” Mr. Bear’s eyebrows lowered. “I just knocked his house over so it would cave in on him to prevent him from telling anyone while I — ah — sort things out.”

“Oh,” Mr,. Rhino paused, swallowing the eyeball rolling across his tongue before continuing, “You probably killed him, Bear. You — uh — that was almost definitely a murdah I think.”

“Ah,” Mr. Bear squeaked, downcast. Was he really — a murdaher? “Well, I guess — ah — haha — that’d be a riot, dying from a roof coming in on your head! Ridiculous — why — perish the thought Mr. Rhino! There is no way that — “

“Mr. Bear,” Mr. Rhino growled with the most sincerity his short temper would allow.

“Yes?” Mr. Bear asked.

“You’re a murdaher,” Mr. Rhino said plainly, then retreated back to his default emotion which was the pleasure of devouring a Dead Wallaby Burger.

“Well, uh, okay, I guess I am,” Mr. Bear scratched his head. “My other neighbors too then — I — uh — caved their roofs in too, thinking it a lark. Oh dear, four dead neighbors around my home with a dead Stag half-eaten half-vomitted up on the lawn. This is the new situation.”

Mr. Rhino’s eyebrow arched so high that it made all those cocky Dreamworks characters feel sorry for themselves.

“Bear, someone is going to see that — ah, shit. Why you talking to me, man? You gotta — clean up the bodies and wow — dat’s a lotta murdah.”

“Oh, haha, oh no, Mr. Rhino, you simpleton, no one shall see,” Mr. Bear chuckled, the tension in his throat finally easing up.

Meanwhile, over the hills, our hungry man, also known as our sour man in addition to being our short legacied man — the one with his hands full of sandwich, he — well — he did a “WhoooOOOOOOooooOOOOOOOOAAA!” for as he slapped some bologna into his hand, his hand accidentally propped up the topmost bread to the point of flipping over, all the sandwich innards beginning to tumble out.

Fortunately, our hungry man was quick, and quickly did he grab all the morsels and the greens and the cheeses and heck — even the individual specks of pepper, but it left him at the tippity top of the hill on the tippity-top of his toesy-woesies.

“See,” Mr. Bear strewn his fat arm across the table, snapping in time with his mischievous grin. “I rigged the street with bombs so if anyone drives by, the bombs will go off and cover everything in a haze.”

“Which would also result in immediate murdahs of all parties,” Mr. Rhino explained as he devoured yet another bite of his burger. “Dead Wallaby pairs really well with this Colombian Roast, you should try it some time.”

“Yeah, I will, um — what do you mean they will all die too?”

“Ya know! Death! Like — AAAAAAAAAAH I’M DYING!” Mr. Rhino shrieked, knee banging into the table as he pounded his sides in glee. Once he finally got over his fit of laughter, he licked his lips of Dead Wallaby and made a face at Mr. Bear that could be interpreted as bedroom eyes.

But Mr. Bear and Mr. Rhino were well acquainted with each other and knew that while they adored each other — they could never make love.

Not out of any sort of homophobia — but they both shared the same argyle sweater from Macy’s that most men paraded around, and given that the sweater had been so involved in their individual coming-of-age journeys, they felt inclined to fuck their sweaters often.

The bedroom eyes of Mr. Rhino remained still and focused as his lips spoke the horrible truth to Mr. Bear.

“You’re a murdaher, Mr. Bear. Not only of one Stag, but likely many moah. If I was you, I’d skip town.”

Mr. Bear frowned. “Oh bother,” he grunted as his paws retreated to his cheeks.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand SPLAT.

Finally, our Hungry Sandwich Boy plummeted, falling off the perch of his toes, and tumbled down the hill, pickles and olives scattering all around him as body rolled about in virgin oil and vinegar.  
“I don’t think that person knows — knew — how sandwiches work,” Mr. Rhino laughed as he took yet another bite.

“Yeah,” Mr. Bear said with no real thought or oomph to it, his blank eyes leaving him and spiraling into a depressive future.

Mr. Rhino smiled for Mr. Bear finally understood.

He was a murdaher.

 


End file.
